Chapter 7 — Francis #2
I step into the garage and lean against the workbench. "Tell me what happens. Specifically."
He's quiet for a moment, weighing how much to say.
"We go to Crane's property. Six of us: me, Clint, Tate, Cain, Chuck, Axel. We breach the house, secure any men inside, find Crane. Clint makes the call. If Crane cooperates, maybe we let him walk. If he doesn't..."
"He dies."
"Yeah."
"And if something goes wrong? If there are more men than you expect or if Crane has better security?"
"Then we adapt. But the plan is solid. Cain's source confirmed Crane only has two loyal men left. One's with him at the property, one's at their last safe house in the next county. We hit the property when we know the second man isn't there."
"What if the intel is wrong?"
"Francis."
"I'm serious. What if you walk into a trap?"
He crosses to where I'm standing and puts his hands on either side of me, caging me against the workbench. His face is close enough that I can see the gray at his temples, the scar through his eyebrow that I never asked about.
"I've been doing this for seventeen years," he says. "I'm good at it. We're all good at it. And we're going in with solid intel, backup plans, and six brothers who trust each other completely. It's as safe as this kind of thing gets."
"That's not the same as safe."
"No. It's not."
I look at him and see the truth he's not saying. That he could die Tuesday night. That any of them could. That this life involves risks that can't be calculated away no matter how good the planning is.
"I'll be waiting," I say.
"I know."
"And if you don't come back, I'm going to be furious with you."
"That's fair."
He kisses me hard, all urgency and possession. When he pulls back his eyes are dark.
"I'm coming back," he says. "I've got something to come home to now."
We spend the rest of Sunday in domestic intimacy.
He changes my car battery like he promised. I make lunch from the limited supplies in his kitchen. We sit on his back porch drinking iced tea and not talking about Tuesday.
At five-thirty we walk to Dad's house together.
Knox brings a six-pack of the beer Dad likes, which means he paid attention years ago when we used to have barbecues in the summer.
Dad answers the door in slacks and a button-down shirt, dressed up more than necessary.
His hands are steadier than they were this morning, which means he took his medication specifically for this.
"Mr. Lee," Knox says, extending his hand.
Dad shakes it. The tremor is visible but he grips firm and doesn't let go until Knox does.
"It's James. Or Jim. We're past the formal stage, I think."
Inside the house smells like roast chicken and potatoes.
We sit down to eat and for the first ten minutes the conversation is polite. Knox asks about Dad's work before he retired, about the projects he used to manage. Dad asks about the MC, about how long Knox has been with Vigil, about whether he plans to stay in Bloomfield long-term.
Then Dad reaches for his water glass and his hand shakes. The tremor is worse than it was this morning, his fingers barely able to grip. He brings his other hand over to steady it but water sloshes over the rim anyway, splashing onto the table.
Knox reaches over without a word, takes the glass from Dad's hands, and sets it down. He uses his napkin to wipe up the spilled water, the whole action taking maybe five seconds and done without comment, without making it a moment.
Dad looks at Knox for a long time. Then he says, "You staying this time?"
Knox doesn't pretend not to understand. "Yes, sir."
"She needs someone reliable. Someone who's going to be there when things get hard. You understand what I'm saying?"
"I do."
"Because things are going to get hard." Dad's voice is steady but there's something underneath it, something raw.
"I'm not getting better. I'm going to get worse and eventually I'm going to need more help than I can ask for.
Francis is going to have to make decisions about what that looks like.
You being with her means you're part of that. You ready for that?"
The bluntness surprises me. Dad's never been one to dance around difficult topics but I didn't expect him to lay it out this directly, this fast.
Knox doesn't flinch. "I'm ready."
"Good." Dad picks up his fork, hands still shaking. "Because she left you once and I think it about killed you. She leaves you again, it'll definitely kill you. So if you're doing this, you better mean it all the way down."
"Dad," I say.
"Let him answer, Frannie."
Knox looks at me, then back at Dad. "I loved her years ago and let her go because I couldn't be what she needed. I love her now at forty-seven and I'm not making that mistake again. I'm all in. Whatever that means, whatever it costs. I'm in."
Dad nods, satisfied. "Then welcome to the family, son."
The tension breaks. Dad takes a bite of chicken and chews slowly before saying, "Her mother would've liked you."
"Dad," I say quietly.
"It's true. She had good instincts about people. Met her at a church social in 1978. I asked her to dance and she told me I had terrible dance moves but a good smile."
Knox smiles slightly. "Sounds like Francis. Direct."
"Gets it from her mother." Dad cuts another piece of chicken, the knife shaking in his hand.
"We had this apartment after we got married, bathroom so small you had to step into the tub to close the door.
Your mother used to joke that it was good practice for being married. Learning to share small spaces."
"How long were you married?" Knox asks.
"Twenty-eight years. She had a heart attack in the garden. Dropped right there next to the tomatoes she was planting." Dad's voice doesn't waver but his hands shake harder. "Francis was at work. I called her and she came straight home. Your mother was already gone by then."
I reach over and put my hand on Dad's. He doesn't pull away.
"I'm sorry," Knox says.
"It's been twelve years. You'd think it would get easier." Dad looks at Knox directly. "It doesn't. You just get used to the empty space."
We're quiet for a moment. Then Dad says, "So this motorcycle club of yours. Vigil. What's that about?"
"We protect Bloomfield," Knox says. "Keep an eye on things. Make sure people are safe."
"Like the police?"
"Not exactly. We handle things the police can't or won't."
"Things like what?"
"Rival MC was pushing into town. Targeting businesses, threatening people. We pushed back. Made it clear Bloomfield is off limits."
Dad nods slowly. "That the club that's been causing trouble? Heard about some violence a few weeks back. Young man killed."
"Perry. He was one of ours."
"I'm sorry to hear that." Dad sets down his fork. "That why you've been restructuring security? I've seen more bikes around town lately. More of your brothers on patrol."
Knox looks surprised. "You noticed that?"
"I notice a lot of things. Just because my hands shake doesn't mean my brain's gone." Dad picks up his water glass slowly, both hands steadying it. "You think this trouble's over?"
"Working on it."
"Be careful. Francis has already lost her mother. I don't want her losing you too."
"I'll be careful."
"See that you are." Dad takes a drink and sets the glass down. "Now tell me about these brothers of yours. Clint's the president, right? Seen him around town. Seems solid."
"He is. Been running the club twelve years. Fair, steady. Doesn't make decisions lightly."
"He married? Got family?"
"Woman named Sydney. She's got a young daughter, and Clint treats that little girl like she's his own."
Dad nods approvingly. "Good. Man who can love someone else's child is a good man." He looks at me. "You met her? This Sydney?"
"Yeah. Saturday night at the clubhouse. She's nice. Direct. All the women are."
"How many brothers in total?"
"About fifteen active," Knox says. "Core group is smaller. Clint, me, Tate, Cain, Holt, Diesel, Roan. Rest are prospects or ride when needed."
"And they all live in Bloomfield?"
"Most of us. Some on the outskirts. We've got a clubhouse three miles east of town."
"The place out on Old Mill Road," Dad says. "Seen it. Looks fortified."
"It is now. After Perry died we upgraded security."
Dad studies Knox for a moment. "You're military, aren't you? Can see it in the way you move. How you assess a room."
"Twelve years. Got out fourteen years ago."
"What made you join a motorcycle club after that?"
"Needed the structure. The brotherhood. Civilian life didn't fit the same way the military did. The club gave me something similar."
"And now you've got Francis. That change things?"
Knox glances at me. "Yeah. It does."
"How?"
"Gives me something to come home to that's bigger than just the club. Makes me less reckless. Makes me want to see tomorrow."
Dad sets down his fork and leans back in his chair. "Good answer." He looks at me. "You picked better this time."
"Dad."
"What? I can't say you picked well?" He looks back at Knox. "She was with a man for six years who didn't see her. You see her?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then don't stop seeing her. That's all I'm asking."
"I won't."